


The Improbable One

by ladykarasu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit dark, Dark-ish John, John has a somewhat looser moral code, More Moriarty for your buck, Sherlock is still Sherlock, Sherlock still wants to keep him, what if...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykarasu/pseuds/ladykarasu
Summary: After John Watson returned from the war, he allowed himself one month to come to terms with the loss.  After that, he planned.Turns out, he was very good at planning.After that, it was almost like the war had never left him.





	1. A Study in Pink (and Egos)

**Author's Note:**

> Years (and years) ago, someone made an off comment about, 'wouldn't it be interesting if John was Moriarty all along...' and a vague idea for the first few scenes of this popped into my head. Dutifully, I wrote them down, then shelved the thing for longer than I care to think about, because life is busy and uncooperative. It's always been there, in the back of my mind, though, and it was the easiest thing for me to get back into the mindset of when I decided -'yep, going to start writing again'. (It's a struggle.) So it was pulled out, dusted off, and really, really expanded the few paragraphs I had. Enjoy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Eventually) follows 'A Study in Pink'.

~*~

After John Watson returned from the war, he allowed himself one month to come to terms with the loss. After that, he planned.

Turns out, he was very good at planning.

After _that_ , it was almost like the war had never left him.

*

Business was going well. It took a few months to get the first real bites, but after that, his reputation spread; slowly, but steadily. Word of mouth in the underworld was surprisingly valuable, so a genuine reference was gold. John’s plans to date had a nearly perfect track record – the few snags that had cropped up were largely ‘user error’ and products of excess greed or impatience; easily seen as such. Those that followed his directions without deviation were almost entirely successful.

After he was established, building a proper network was relatively easy, if a little tedious.

*

Holmes was beginning to interest him. He had stumbled onto – no, that wasn’t fair – he had noticed a few of John’s projects, and solved them (more or less) for what they were. Not that they were part of a larger whole, but the crimes themselves, yes. It was impressive; John had been certain no one would ever realize what had been set up. The misdirection had been nearly flawless. (He was, in fact, familiar with the ‘evil overlord’ list; he knew better than to use words like ‘impossible’, no matter how much he planned.)

He decided to keep an eye on the man; might be someone worth toying with. Break the monotony a bit.

*

Meeting Mike was pure coincidence. He stumbled through the conversation as he would have a year previous, damaged and weary. It paid to keep up the image; pension-bound ex-army doctors were not, after all, generally under suspicion of being very (very) successful criminal masterminds.

When the flat share came up, he followed out of amusement, curious to see who Mike had associated him with. When they were introduced, John nearly fell over laughing. It had literally taken all of his effort to keep a straight face through the other man’s scrutiny.

Oh, fate could be a funny thing.

John had poked around Holmes’ website a bit – not nearly as interesting as the poor man seemed to think it was – toying with ideas on how to draw him out for more interesting interaction than the passive, spectatorship he’d engaged in thus far. The offer to sublet a room to the man before him had been sent off, posted to his forum on a lark days previous, just to see how he’d react (not at all, seemed to be the answer). That they were in the same room not-discussing a flat share he had nothing to do with, now, was just too rich. By the end of the conversation, he’d decided to go through with it.

He could play with Holmes for a while then, see how he ticked up close, and be in the perfect position to dispose of him when he was done.

*

Being ‘on’ all the time was a bit of a challenge; remembering, always, to be that invalided soldier – discarded, without value – the tension to his frame, the slightly strained expression; it took conscious effort to be what he was a year ago. But the act was engaging in a way the work never was. It was an interesting challenge, finding new ways to manipulate the people around him through subtle body language and their own expectations. Funny how easy it was to hide behind an openly expressive face, people assume you are completely incapable of dissimulation if they think they can see every thought cross your face.

Still… it was invigorating. In the first two days of their ‘acquaintance’, Sherlock managed to distract him into forgetting to limp. Twice! He’d made him laugh more, genuinely, that he’d done since returning, discarded, from his service. He was dismissive, and flighty, and couldn’t be bothered to think of others, but he was so alive, so wrapped up in the ‘game’, that he’d drag anyone nearby into his excitement (and along with the danger, given half a chance) without even thinking about it.  
  
John was self-aware enough to recognize there was no special connection, he was merely giving the other man what no one else had thought to; attention, and the humour of their belief (and just a few, simple compliments for his ego), but it was almost easy to forget it wasn’t some shared secret only for him. Then the brother added an interesting challenge all his own, and the situation John had orchestrated as a minor distraction became very nearly more engaging than his actual work…

And then that damned cabbie had to try to muscle in on his game, tried to claim his prize, and that was a step too far. For all his success in his chosen enterprise, John had very few entertainments, and he was… vexed… that Hope had aimed higher than his station to take a shot at John’s. The stupid bloody man had gone with a known serial killer, too – if he’d been tricked into it, it would almost be forgivable, but John knew enough about him to recognize that would be no way to distract him from the drama and audience the MET had meted out upstairs – it had to be a bigger hook, more obvious bait…

So the pillock had gone knowingly to what would probably be his death without a word or a warning, not bothering even with a simple message that he’d left, expecting his own intellect to save him, when he had no idea how the game was to be played, or what would be waiting for him, there. And _John_ was supposed to be the idiot. Jesus!

He had a little time – Hope enjoyed theatrics almost as much as Sherlock did, they would probably flaunt their intellects at each other for a while before the real danger began – but real anxiety burbled under his façade until the police left, and he could finally take off after his idiot pet.

When he finally arrived, John’s fears were about to be realized. The damned fool had the pill up to his lips, caught in the hypnotic lure of ego, taunt, and temptation that Hope had honed to a weapon. Conveniently out of sight, out of any awareness between the two men wholly wrapped up in their own drama, John sighted his shot, and took it. He made sure the injury left the option of later reprisals; permanence was far too good for someone who’d tried to take what was his.

*

Maintaining his act – after all the excitement and churning, turbulent emotions this rescue had kicked up – was just a bit difficult. He had time, however; he couldn’t be seen to arrive before the police, and they were not nearly as prompt as most people would like to believe. So John waited, and breathed, and calmed himself – letting the mask of ‘John Watson, invalided soldier’ settle back over ‘John Watson: incredibly annoyed Criminal Mastermind’.

It took a bit of time, but he managed it, before the first sirens sounded. He waited, letting them swarm the building, set up their cordon, make their conjectures, and manhandle Sherlock into an ambulance. The last made a tiny, possessive part of him rear up and snarl, but it was easily pushed back under; Sherlock _should_ be checked out. Probably for brain damage, too, though John suspected that condition predated this encounter.

Bloody fool of a man.

Still, John had claimed him, so he would just need to care for him until it was time to put him down, like any good pet owner would do.

After what he deemed to be a sufficient time, John ambled – with a touch of affected confusion and concern – onto the outer fringes of the crime scene, waiting. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to notice him out along the edges, and he stopped mid-sentence, drifting over to John as if being pulled by an invisible force, focus suddenly all on him.

That was… kind of nice, actually.

And then…

And then, he proved how clever he really was. In part, at least. Calling John on the shooting that no one else would have seen – that he was almost certain Sherlock _couldn’t_ have – asserting the quality of his shot, rolling with it as truth until John accidentally agreed... Damn. He thought he’d been better prepared than that. And yet, there was no derision, no alarm; suddenly, the attention Sherlock focused on cases was on John, really seeing him – or at least, the bits John let bleed through. The banter was comfortable and Sherlock was clearly convinced of John’s good character before ever prodding him on his motivations. Maintaining the moral high ground in the other man’s eyes, even with a known murder on his hands, was easy. The tone turned conspiratorial as they left, and John thought… perhaps he’d keep this, for a while.


	2. Never Hire Performing Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following 'The Blind Banker'. Mostly.

The act was getting easier, more comfortable. With his new social arrangements came more opportunities for reasonable responses outside of his previous, stifling set. It had more depth and breadth, now – he was able to drop the limp, snap, show frustration and anger that would previously have to be more subtle, buried deeper to be believable – and he could _laugh_. Amusement, enjoyment, even a bit of flirting – all were within the realm of realism for his current, public persona. Where he had become stifled, shying away from the public eye, before, he was now able to spread out, experiment, _live_ more than just his business.

It was… nice. He’d have to thank Sherlock for that, somehow; maybe drop a few interesting projects on his lap. The man did love his distractions.

*

The unfortunate downside of his new, public persona was money. No way to touch what he’d accumulated through less than legal means, not without the risk of it being noticed, of it prompting far more questions than he’d like to answer, and bills that needed to be paid.

So, a legitimate job had to be found. It wasn’t very interesting, but it would be a necessity, and once he had a recognized income, it could always be added to a bit, here and there, with cash.

*

Sherlock’s next big case was a bit annoying. John was not really ready to give up the smuggling ring – it was something of a pet project – the set up was clever, without all the tedium they usually entailed, and just enough of a theatrical bend to leave him somewhat amused. And it was lucrative, without much effort on his part after the initial setup. No, he was not happy that someone had gotten Sherlock’s attention with it.

The theatrics, perhaps, had gone a bit too far, become a bit too noticeable to the layman; that was one area he could mete out repercussions in, at least – but that damned, smarmy banker… Wilkes might have to have an accident, later.

For now, John did what he could without being obvious – his support diminished, hidden in disinterest, and subtle attempts at misdirection – and his attitude soured, while still maintaining a ‘working’ relationship with Sherlock. It was somewhat demoralizing (was intended to be) while not triggering any red flags in the other man. Besides, Sherlock was being a bit of a prat, anyway, so he deserved at least some of that.

*

Much to John’s annoyance, Sherlock continued on, making progress. It wasn’t a certain thing, but John had to reconcile the prospect that Sherlock would, without any help, find this plot out, as well. It wouldn’t _hurt_ him to lose it, but it was an annoyance. And adding insult to injury, he was gifted with an ASBO for his troubles. An inconvenience that did not seem to concern the other man one whit.

So, his interest waning further, John focused on the woman at his new job—the doctor who ran the place, actually—who was fetching enough and seemed interested in him after a bit of awkward flirting. She might prove a nice distraction.

Eventually, though, John started getting caught up in it with Sherlock, again; he could help just a bit. Get it over with quicker, anyway – the protracted search just left more openings to dig out his secrets. This could still be a stand-alone crime – there was no need for the true scope of it to be discovered.

Still, the closer Sherlock got, the more danger that fool man wandered into without even realizing it.  
The order not to harm Sherlock was broadcast; made the chase less exciting, of course, but he didn’t want it to be over this soon… perhaps he should have thought to include himself in that missive, though. John hadn’t expected to become a target, himself, though – perhaps he was slipping, a bit.

Or perhaps, he had expected experienced assassins to know their bloody job, and not act like the villain of the week in a Hardy Boys knockoff. Sure, some of the convoluted drama they’d engaged in had led to an awkward, but memorable (and steadily improving, once Sherlock hared off) date night, but the interruption once it turned for the better was unforgivable.

He could probably have talked his way out of it, once they came for him – and it was damned galling that he hadn’t seen it coming, deflected it – but that would be tipping his hand. Also, head trauma was a bitch.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what had happened, after coming back to consciousness; that he’d been mistaken for Holmes (something that should never have happened - and if that was the case, was Sherlock still safe? Only Sarah and he had been taken… shit, he’d not planned for that), that they thought they could use his date as leverage…

That was just insulting – he rather liked her, and the melodrama was patently ridiculous. Coupled with their ineffective-at-best research into both missing product, and into the detective they’d planned to use to find it when their own means weren’t working...

Well, John felt somewhat less bad about the loss of this income stream.

Luckily, Sherlock did arrive (safely, John was somewhat relieved to find) in full plume of ego, to ‘save the day’. He did little more than offer a distraction while John bumbled his cover-persona into the right position to actually save the day, but it was helpful, all the same.

*

After the dust had settled, and the loose ends were being tied up, John had time to think. To consider all that had occurred, to date. A bit of (significantly more useful) research on his part answered a few questions with how that plot had gone off the rails, and let him consider a few things he hadn’t before.

The look he’d gotten when Sherlock had rescued him from Shan and her merry band of murderous acrobats was… endearing, actually. (The micro-camera John had hidden in the flat offered an even more unvarnished account, after the fact; the look on Sherlock’s face when he realized they’d been taken in his absence…)

Affection, concern, just a touch of panic; it was clear he’d begun to care about John. Really care, not just an act he put on for his benefit. That was… a surprise. They had been companionable enough up to now, bonding over crime scenes and adrenaline, but he hadn’t actually expected to produce any sort of emotional attachment in the other man; particularly after spurning him the last few days. He was frustrating, and brilliant and not terribly compassionate towards anyone; that John had worked his way under Sherlock’s radar, behind his defenses without even trying? Without faking his way in?

It was a heady feeling.

He held this man’s heart – such as it was – in his hands; his only friend. If he wanted to, he could destroy him, utterly, in ways more intimate, more complete than he’d ever considered. It would take very little to cultivate that weakness, prime Sherlock for it…

Shaking that thought away, he instead planned out how he would destroy Shan.

True, she didn’t know who he actually was when she’d abducted and threatened him, but ignorance was no excuse. And she’d done a piss-poor job of it, anyway.

He swore he was working with drama-queens.


	3. Great Games and When to Fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows The Great Game.

Something needed to be done.

Sherlock, not prone to self-preservation or social constructs at the best of times, was tearing himself apart with boredom. Also their flat, which was enough to be going on with.

John had been toying with the idea of setting up a game for Sherlock for a while, now – a distraction, possibly the last – but the recent lack of things to focus on, of decent crimes (and he was slacking a bit, perhaps; or attending to a better, more obedient class of client, at least) had the man frayed further than he’d ever seen. So, removing his firearm from the general vicinity before more damage could be inflicted on the flat, neighborhood, or neighbors, John sent a few choice texts, and arranged himself a place to stay for the night.

The first move would be rather explosive, after all.

*

Mycroft remained, as ever, an unbearable twat. His timing was similarly atrocious, but he couldn’t have known that. Still, having the heavy handed ‘offer’ to research a lost set of military plans for his brother only seemed to make Sherlock more interested in his own game. He jumped at the first clear invitation, wholly focused when he got his hands on the little gift from his past that was left behind; his first challenge to solve. It was… very satisfying.

John couldn’t play the way he’d initially intended, running everything himself – he was too close to Sherlock to reliably do so, now – but he thought he knew the man well enough to make some fair guesses on his reactions. Messages and plans, rules and instructions, all were written and passed on to his stand-in before the game started. Jimmy deviated a bit from the basic script he was given, but he did have an aborted history in acting, so it was only to be expected, and the texts still got their point across even with embellishments. The encore production in the lab, however, was a bit painful to watch. Still, Sherlock took the bait for what it was, so it was still a useful layer to the production.

*

The pips proceeded much as he’d expected they would, with only a few snags. Although, they were easily passed snags, handled with a hint and a clue here and there, either through John’s helpful insights or Jim handing Sherlock a hint through the game. The latter seemed to put Sherlock off a bit, but it kept things interesting, kept him from noticing how much John led him in the quiet moments. He let Sherlock discover enough of it on his own to satisfy him, in any case; laid out a few false victories of his own to be corrected; the other man was truly in his element, if a bit dismissive of the pawns put into play in the process.

Jimmy continued to deviate from his script, but not enough to truly effect things. John supposed every ‘actor’ wanted to put their own flair on their part.

*

The blind woman was… unfortunate. This was not the game he had orchestrated; perhaps he should not have lashed out at Sherlock because of it, but he couldn’t exactly take his people to task from here. And he had come to expect… a bit better of him? Still, the game continued – it had to be played through, even if it gave away more of his hand than he had really intended at the start.

The fourth pip went more smoothly, even if Sherlock left it to literally the last second to solve – and after the last mishap, John was not entirely sure things would go to plan if he didn’t (an oversight he chastised himself over, variables left untended when taking himself from the active playing field, now) – but the fifth…

Well, plans changed; he knew damn well Sherlock hadn’t returned the plans as he’d said – so John waited, and the final pip was altered.

*

Getting into the rig was oddly disconcerting, but he had his role to play, and it was an important prop. The moment he stepped out into view, Sherlock froze; John could see the thoughts fighting each other, tumbling through his mind – horror, panic, doubt – was John the source? Was he the last victim? How had this become so personal…? Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore… And then he started talking, and John could almost see the ice forming in Sherlock’s veins, the stiffness of his reactions, no longer playful...

Then Jim came out. It was an admirable performance, John had chosen the man well for his front; his own performance was – if he said so, himself – perfect, but it couldn’t be lauded as such, given Sherlock didn’t know it wasn’t true. But Jim, he hit all the right notes; unnerving in an unpredictable way, he was the perfect criminal mastermind. He would have to congratulate him, later.

But now it was time for the final phase of his game. His exit from the stage, back to the wings… but Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t take the bait. Cold, pragmatic Sherlock froze, when John – ostensibly – put himself into harm’s way for him, soldier to the brim.

He thought Sherlock would run. He really did. Sherlock would run and John would be ‘abducted’ for a while, and then he could decide if he were coming back, perhaps feigning an escape. Or not come back quite yet, and instead use himself as bait in a new round of games. Or leave it at that, close that part of his life and live in the business, entirely.

But Sherlock didn’t. He had the chance to leave John and get out safely, and didn’t take it.

John considered what to do.

He supposed he could have Sherlock shot somewhere non-lethal; wait for him to pass out, or use the confusion to get him out without noticing they weren’t being pursued. The thought didn’t sit well, however.

Shooting the bomb wouldn’t do anything, it was a dud, a prop – he wasn’t playing this game straight enough to actually wear live explosives. John figured he’d put together a good enough fake to fool Sherlock as long as he needed to. (It had worked, rather spectacularly if his frantic reaction trying to get it off were to be believed.)

No, this game was just starting to feel cruel. John recognized that he had begun to grow fond of the other man, himself; accepted that, and took it into account for the future.

So, time for a different tack.

“Right”, he said, pushing himself up slowly, “That’s enough of that, then.”

Sherlock tensed, glancing at him in concern – which was nice, really, but it wasn’t like John could be in any more danger than he already was, all things considered. Sherlock had been about to shoot the bomb, after all. Still, it was a pleasant reaction. He wondered for a moment what would have happened if he _had_ met Sherlock first, then pushed the thought away as irrelevant; John hadn’t been a dreamer for a while, now.

“Jimmy…” Ah, and now Sherlock noticed he’s not the only one who froze. John could see the gears clicking over, wary tension ratcheting up. “Go ahead and clear out, we’re done here.” Jim hadn’t visibly moved, eyes flicking between John and Sherlock guardedly. John almost rolled his eyes; he wasn’t that bad. “It’s fine, get going.”

Jim straightened abruptly, gave a deferential nod, and exited the way he came in.

Sherlock still hadn’t moved, but for lowering the gun to his side as Jimmy left. “John?”

A touch of willful confusion to that question; he understood, he just didn’t want to. Bit of a plea, too – to tell him he was wrong, explain this away.

John could see in the tension of his frame, the creases around his eyes; he’d accept it. Make it sound good and he would accept it, ignore what he knew and go on as they were.

Or at least, he’d try.

And that would be a shame, watching this brilliant man cripple himself to believe a pretty lie.

He shook his head slightly, and Sherlock’s eyes fell closed for a long moment, blinked open, and he turned to face John fully, gun held loosely, forgotten at his side.

“Moriarty?” The deep voice was flat, beaten, already knowing the answer.

John shrugged a little, slight smile curling his lips. “Just the front. Make doubly sure no one gets to me.” His words were gentle, almost apologetic, though they clearly did little to soften the blow.

“Of course. Very clever.” Sherlock’s voice was still flat, distant, and for the first time John truly regretted starting this little distraction. He’d broken something tonight, and he… regretted it. Perhaps it would be a kindness to end the man after all, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to do it, now.  


Dull, blue -green eyes caught his again, and John was proud; even now, clearly shaken, the other man chose to face this head on. “What happens now, John?” Voice still dull, he parroted back Jim’s words, “I can’t be allowed to continue, remember?”

Well that was… not kind, but fair. John sighed. “Just go home, Sherlock. I’ll let you leave. “ He shouldn’t – he _really_ shouldn’t – but he owed the man that much.

“Ah. But will I let you?” The gun rose half-heartedly in his direction, the steady conviction he’d turned on Jim long gone, and damned if John wasn’t half certain that bloody, reckless fool was trying to force his hand.

He grimaced, briefly, shaking his head and half turning away from Sherlock. “You do what you think you need to, Sherlock.” It wasn’t a challenge. He was _pretty_ sure the other man wouldn’t shoot, in fact he was banking on it. “And so will I.”

With that, John left, never turning back.

No noise followed him; he supposed he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Random_Nexus, without whom this would be much more awkward, and very probably never actually posted. Not only is she a born enabler (in the good way), she took quite a lot of time out to edit and catch all my dumb mistakes (and the commas, good lord the commas...) Thanks, hun - I appreciate it. <3


End file.
